


Haraam

by CherriesOnTheCake



Category: Bepannaah (Indian TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Passion, Romance, Steamy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 04:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17800775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherriesOnTheCake/pseuds/CherriesOnTheCake
Summary: Adi hasn’t received any training for how to help a rape victim and the internet has shut down so he can’t Google the answer either. He wracks his brain trying to remember anything; when he can’t he carries Mrs Arora to his bathroom.





	Haraam

It happens on a perfectly normal Sunday morning.

 

Adi wakes up before dawn as normal. He carefully  slides on his taqiyah over his ridiculously thick hair as normal. He puts on his favourite white patilala suit as normal. He walks to the masjid, buys a day’s worth of groceries from the market on his way home, and smiles at Mrs Arora through her kitchen window all as he normally does on his day off.

 

The riots don’t start until he starts making parathe for breakfast and even then they only exist as sensationalist news bulletins via tha TV. Adi doesn’t take any of it seriously. Mumbai, in general, isn’t known for Hindu-Muslim riots and especially not in Bandra where he lives.

 

But then someone pounds on his door while he’s eating and his heart almost stops when Mrs Arora falls into his arms. The entire front of her white saree is splattered with blood. 

 

“Where are you hurt?” He demands as he carries her into his sitting room, climbing right onto the settee with her on his lap. “Tell me!” 

 

When all she does is cry he frantically tears her saree off to search for wounds. He might be a pilot but he has received basic first aid training. If there’s a deep wound somewhere he might be able to stem the blood loss until he can get her to a hospital.

 

When he can’t see anything immediately he unknots the drawstring of her chania with trembling fingers and starts to pull it off when he sees it. There’s was a growing blood patch on the her chania right between her legs.  He lifts his hands from her waist immediately.

 

“What happened?” He stares at her with wide eyes and a growing pit of dread opening up in his stomach. 

 

“We were at home,” Mrs Arora sobs. “I didn’t know about the riots otherwise I would have locked the door. They broke it,” she gasps into his kameez, “and then...and then...”

 

“It’ll be okay,” he cups the back of her head, winding his fingers through her thick curls, and lets her wail against him. Absently he hears something about a curfew from the TV. “You’re safe here.” He drops an instinctive kiss to the top of her head and curls around her protectively. “I’ll take you to the doctor as soon as I can.”

 

Adi hasn’t received any training for how to help a rape victim and the internet has shut down so he can’t Google the answer either. He wracks his brain trying to remember anything; when he can’t he carries Mrs Arora to his bathroom.

 

“A shower might help,” he sets her down carefully onto her feet outside the door and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll find you a change of clothes. My brother and his wife stay over sometimes. I’m sure there’s something in her things that will fit you.” When he tries to go she pulls him back firmly by the hand. 

 

“No.”

 

“But...”

 

“Please.” 

 

She moves slightly and the blood patch on her chania grows even more prominent. Clenching his jaw Adi yanks off his kameez and gives it to her.

 

“I’ll be right here,” he promises and shuts his bathroom door  behind her when she finally goes inside. His legs tremble the minute she’s out of his sight and he finds himself practically collapsing onto the floor. He feels numb, so much so he doesn’t even realise he’s crying until he sees the tears drop onto his hands.

 

She’s in the bathroom for at least a couple of hours. During that time the new bulletins on the TV that he can overhear become more frightening. Lootings, murders, beheadings, rapes...it seemed there were no depths humanity couldn’t fall to that night.

 

When Mrs Arora finally emerges with wet hair and a pale face, her body practically drowning in his kameez, Adi feels an overwhelming sense of relief.

 

“Are you still bleeding?” He asks in a whisper. She flinches a little at his words but shakes her head. He bites his lip and takes half a step closer. “I have food if you’re hungry.”

 

She lowers her eyes and fidgets on her feet. Before he can talk himself out of it Adi takes another step and lifts her up into his arms. He carries her to the sitting room and sits down with her in his arms. 

 

“There was a group of them,” she whispers so faintly he has to lower his face towards hers to be able to hear, “Until this morning I had only been with one man my entire life and now,” her lips tremble, “now I can’t even remember how many.”

 

“They don’t count,” he strokes her cheek, “where’s your mother-in-law?” He doesn’t know the elder Mrs Arora very well, she has rarely emerged from the house since her son died, but from what little he knows she doesn’t seem the type to abandon her daughter-in-law when she needs help.  

 

“I don’t know,” Mrs Arora whispers into his bare chest. “She wasn’t there when...when...and she wasn’t there when I escaped.” She looks up at him wildly, “I didn’t even search for her. I came straight here.” He strokes her hair soothingly even as she sobs against him.  “I don’t even know why.”

 

“You made the right decision,” he pulls her even closer, “I’ll protect you.”

 

According to the news the curfew has been extended to two days. Things have gotten so bad that by the evening Adi can hear the baying of the mobs even from his locked windows. 

 

He stands by the one in the kitchen, carefully peering out through the gaps in the shutters as he smokes his way through the best part of a pack of cigarettes. Mobs of people, he can’t tell if they’re Hindu or Muslim, are burning cars outside.  

 

“You still haven’t put on a shirt,” Mrs Arora jars him from his thoughts suddenly and he turns to see her limping towards him. 

 

His Kameez is loose all over on her.

 

The collar drops over her right shoulder and most of the arm, revealing livid black and purple bruises that make him want to break something; and the hem very nearly drags across the floor. She’s tracing a nail nervously across the white embroidery at her hip, her perfectly manicured toes curl against the marble, and her full mouth twitches in what he’s absolutely sure is an attempt at a reassuring smile; his eyes rake over all of her movements without his permission.

 

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

 

When Mrs Arora shakes her head he stubs his cigarette out against the shutter before taking a step closer to her. 

 

“You’re limping.”

 

“It hurts.” 

 

“You should sleep in my room tonight.” Taking a deep breath to try and compose himself he reaches into a drawer blindly and slams a box of painkillers onto the table. “My mattress is softer than the one in the guestroom.”

 

“Thank you,” she says softly after he walks past her and he squeezes his eyes shut because he’s not doing any of this for her. The smiles they exchange every Sunday make his whole week; he doesn’t know what he’ll do if they stop.

 

Adi wasn’t born Muslim. He converted after his wife died. Islam was the only religion that made sense to him during that dark period and while his parents never truly objected he felt unable to live with them afterwards.  

 

His hands tremble at the thought of not being able to go to the masjid for prayers for the first time in five years, but he pulls on his taqiyah and a thin black kameez and performs his abolutions as faithfully at home as he ever does there. 

 

The only place in the house to pray namaz is the sitting room. It’s the only east facing room in the house that isn’t blocked by a bathroom. Instead it faces out towards a park. 

 

He freezes when he emerges from the guestroom, prayer mat under his arm, to find Mrs Arora laying on his settee. She’s on her side, his kameez riding up past her scratched knees and down her bruised shoulder and all he can see is the pain in her eyes. Tears prick his own eyes as he sets his mat down carefully in front of her and as he prays he’s as aware of her gaze on his back as if it were a caress.

 

His absolutions might have been faithful but his namaz definitely isn’t. Even then when he turns to find her eyes still on him he can’t help but feel his prayers were answered.

 

“Do you still hurt?” She nods. “Is it worse than before?” When she shakes her head he sighs before rising up to join her on the settee, clenching his jaw when she shifts slightly away to avoid brushing his shoulder. He takes a deep breath. “They didn’t hurt you with,” he gulps past the lump in his throat, “objectsdid they?”

 

Mrs Arora’s eyes widen and he instantly wants to take back his question. Instead he presses on because if she’s even more hurt than he already imagines she is, he’s definitely going to need to find help.  “There’s no shame on you if they did but we’ll need to get urgent help.  I don’t want...”

 

“They didn’t use anything unnatural,” Mrs Arora interrupts quickly, harshly, and he closes his eyes with relief. “Why are you only ever home on Sundays?”

 

He flutters open his eyes and smiles tiredly when he finds her glaring at him. Anger must be good, he thinks, it means she isn’t in shock at least. Or crying. Adi hates it when she cries. “Don’t even think of lying to me. I can see your front door from my kitchen.” Now that is most definitely a lie. His front door faces her side wall. The only way she would ever be able to monitor his comings and goings is if she made the effort to.  “You come home late on Saturday evening and then leave again early Monday morning. What kind of job do you have that doesn’t even allow you to rest properly?”

 

“I’m a pilot,” he leans back into the new pink cushions his sister-in-law must have brought in while he was away. Technically he shouldn’t even return home this much; he works for an international airline and so has to fly across the world at short notice. Keeping his schedule restricted enough to allow him to come home one day a week costs him money and career opportunities. He smirks. “It’s a responsible job.”

 

“That doesn’t mean you need to be irresponsible with yourself.” He stares as her eyes soften, the anger in them melting away to reveal another warmer emotion. It takes every shred of his self-control not to close the distance between them.

 

“You want me to spend a full weekend at home,” he whispers without taking his eyes away from hers, “fine. Consider it done. But youwill have to take responsibility for me.” He grins when a cute little frown puckers her eyebrows. “I want some of that biryani you pack away every Saturday evening and a couple of those parathe I smell on Sundays. I can’t believe you have the majaalto smile at me every Sunday morning for a year and not offer me any. I’m offended.”

 

“I only smile at you out of pity because you smile first,” she says officiously and he snorts, “but fair enough I could give you food out of pity too.” She bites her lip and the smile on his own lips freezes. “Is there anything more you would like from me jahapana?” 

 

His heart pounds like a drum and feels like it will burst up into his throat. He swallows hard. Of course he wants more. He wants everything from her and he wants to give everything of himself to her too. 

 

“You could start by telling me your name,” he says calmly even as a dark wave of emotion starts burning through his veins. He’s never going to call her Mrs Arora again, not in his mind nor on his tongue.

 

“Zoya,” she slides a little further away when his shoulder knocks hers accidentally. The name is a surprise and some of it might even show on his face because she suddenly looks nervous. “I gave up Islam when I married Yash so his family would accept me.”

 

“Did it work?”

 

“More or less.” She takes a thready breath and her eyes flit away from his in something that almost looks like shame. “It would have been better if we had kids.”

 

“Kids don’t really solve anything,” Adi glances at her before standing up. “My wife died in childbirth. My son too. But it was her death that destroyed me. Maybe your husband didn’t want to put himself through that.”

 

“Maybe,” Zoya lowers her eyes sadly. “Will you help me to your room please, I think I want to sleep.”

 

That night someone tries to petrol bomb his house but Adi only realises in the morning when he wakes up coughing on the floor of his own room to the stench of smoke and gasoline, Zoya trembling on top of him, and his wardrobe somehow pushed in front of the door.

 

“I tried to wake you,” she looks up from his bare chest, “but the smoke...you had an Asthma attack.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I thought you were dead.”

 

“Then you should have run.” His throat feels like it’s been scoured by sandpaper. He tries to sit up but collapses back down on the floor, “because I have no idea how I’m even going to get up let alone move that wardrobe.” He grabs her wrist tightly before she can even try to get up and do it herself. “Don’t you dare. I don’t know how you managed to move it by yourself but I’m going to be the one to move it back.” He coughs. “I just need time to gather my strength first.”

 

“I have your inhaler if you need it.” He smiles when she tucks her face back into his chest. 

 

“I haven’t used it for so long even I don’t know where it is. Where did you find it?”

 

“Third drawer of your bedside table,” she says sleepily, her breath hot against his skin. “It was behind the condoms.”

 

“I have condoms?” He wraps both arms firmly around her shoulders. She stops shaking immediately. 

 

“Hmm.  You do realise they’re haraam right?”

 

“A lot of things are haraam,” he drops a kiss to the top of her head, “technically what we’re doing right now is haraam too.”

 

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

 

“True.” He gently pulls her wrist up to play with her bangles. Tears prick his eyes at the scratches and bruises underneath them. “Seeing you on Sundays makes my whole week better. Without you I probably wouldn’t come home at all.”

 

Zoya glances up consideringly and he smiles at her. “After all of this, do you think you could ever look me in the eye and not remember the circumstances that led you here?” He plays with a thick steel bangle that sits on top of the white ones. It’s plain, more like a man’s kada than anything designed for a woman, but it’s most definitely hers. It’s the only one of her bangles that fits perfectly around her wrist. “Or will I become haraam too?”

 

“I don’t know.” She sniffs. “I hope not. Seeing you makes my week better too.” She sits up and for the first time Adi notices that she’s wearing the black kurta he took off last night rather than the white one she went to bed with. He smirks. All of his clothes seem to look better on her than him. 

 

“I don’t just want to see you.” He scoffs. It takes every shred of his self-control not to grab her hand when she slides it off his body. “I want a daavat. You’ll be making me lots of food in exchange for that extra day off.” Adi grins when Zoya rolls her eyes. “Parathe, biryani, and God knows what else you hide from me. I bet you make the best mithai. You look like you have a sweet tooth.”

 

She frowns. “Are you calling me fat?

 

“If the shoe fits...”

 

“If I’m fat you must be obese. That’s why your clothes are so huge on me.” She pulls his kurta away by inches from her chest and he grins as he shoves his hands under his head.  

 

“Do I look obese to you?” He wiggles his eyebrows and she shoves his shoulder hard before staggering up to her feet.  

 

“All the fat is in your head.” 

 

That afternoon the internet is briefly reinstated and so the first person Adi calls is the Hooda family doctor. Apparently almost everything Adi did thus far to help Zoya was wrong and the guy wants her at his private hospital the minute the curfew is lifted. He gives his phone to Zoya afterwards and hovers by the door of his bedroom when she calls her in-laws.

 

“I’m safe. How are you?” she plays with the black embroidery on his kurta. “I’m with our neighbour, you know the one who only comes home on Sundays.”

 

He can’t hear what’s being said on the other end of the phone but he can guess by the pinched expression on Zoya’s face. She is clearly not being asked about her wellbeing. He slowly unclenches his fists; he has no idea when they clenched in the first placed.  “Yes Mummyji.” Zoya glances up at Adi once before sliding her gaze away. “I’ll come home as soon as the curfew is lifted.” She presses a hand to the top part of her chest that’s visible even with every one of this buttons closed.  “I’m sorry.  I...hello?” 

 

She lowers his phone, squinting at the screen until he enters the room.  “I think the network’s down again.”

 

“The riots have spread to Bharat Nagar. It’s on the news.  There’s talk about extending the curfew to a week.” 

 

When she doesn’t reply he sits at the edge of the bed as far away from her as possible.  Even then her presence is still stifling.  He feels like she’s suffocating him slowly with her scent, her presence, that heat he still remembers from the morning when she was plastered against him. His eyes draw to hers instinctively as a moth to a flame. “What did she say to you?”

 

“She thinks I shouldn’t have left,” Zoya gathers her knees up to her chest, his kurta riding up the hand shaped bruises on her calves. “She’s probably right. Now when the curfew lifts all of the neighbours will see me leave your place. They already talk about us. This will make everything so much worse.”

 

Adi frowns, “our neighbours talk about us?” 

 

When Zoya curls up against her knees he slides a little closer to her. “What do they say?”

 

“Nothing that’s true but it still hurts her to hear it.  My being here will make everything worse.” She tugs at her hair. “I’m so stupid. What kind of idiot runs away from their own home after they get attacked!” Her eyes widen with panic.  “I should have stayed, run upstairs, locked myself in the bathroom.  I should have...”

 

Unable to hear this any more Adi slides over the last few inches between them, hooks an arm behind her knees, and lifts her onto his lap. 

 

“You didn’t run away from anything. You followed your instincts to me,” he whispers, cupping her cheek with one hand when she looks up at him in awe. “We barely even know each other but somewhere here,” his hand slides from her cheek to her chest, right above her racing heart, “you knew I would protect you. That isn’t the kind of decision people make, Zoya. That’s fate.”

 

“I was so scared,” she whispers as her hand traces up the back of his.

 

“I know, sweetheart.” Tears prick his eyes even as they fall from hers.  “But there’s nothing to be scared of. There never was. Mein hu na. I’ll always take care of you.” 

 

They stay inside Adi’s house for five more nights before the police announce on a tannoy that the curfew within Bandra has been lifted. They hear the announcement early in the morning while eating parathe Zoya made and his heart clenches when she drops everything to search for clothes.

 

“I need something white,” she says frantically as she searches through his sister-in-law’s things, not even listening when he tells her she needs a doctor first.  She eventually finds a pale mint green sari and he has just enough time to turn his back before she tears off the kurta she’s wearing.

 

“You’re this scared of what people will say about us,” he clenches his jaw and his fists, infuriated by how irresponsible she’s being with herself. “You’re not even going to get an STD test first?”

 

“I’ll go later.”

 

“No you won’t,” he turns around just as she’s tucking in the pleats of her sari and grabs her tightly by the arm above the stupid white bangles he hasn’t seen her take off even to treat the wounds underneath.  “Go home if you want but my doctor will come for you.” He shakes her arm. “If he so much as has to ring the doorbell twice I swear to God I’ll break down your fucking door. Do you understand me?”

 

When she doesn’t reply he steps into her personal space.  “I asked you a question, Zoya.” He practically snarls in her face. “Do. You. Understand.”

 

When she nods he lets her go and she runs from his house, the pallu of her sari flying behind her like broken butterfly wings. He doesn’t let himself cry until she’s out of sight.

 

/


End file.
